


The Hearth of the Heart

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Accusations of drug use, Asphyxiation, BDSM, Breathplay, Dom/sub, Drug Mentions, M/M, Spanking, Switch Sherlock, i am seriously not good at tagging, sorry to those looking for immediate porn, very first chapter is clean and barely scratches the surface
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-03-19
Updated: 2014-05-09
Packaged: 2018-01-16 06:47:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,179
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1335940
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>One: Sherlock has been unusually chipper as of recent. Lasting comparatively longer than his usual bouts of mania.</i>
  <br/>
  <i>Two: Bruises sometimes reveal themselves, just for a breath's time, before being hidden again as Sherlock straightens his collar or adjusts his scarf once more. John swears he sees Sherlock wincing one day after each step he takes</i>
  <br/>
  <i>And, three, he has been leaving at random intervals during a month's time, disappearing for hours, telling John not to wait up. Not to worry. Which of course, is worrying in itself.</i>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>  <b>UPDATE: i'm having an existential writing crisis currently and doubting everything I've ever written, so I don't know if this will be updated in the near future. Apologies.</b></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Hot and Cold

**Author's Note:**

> This chapter is safe for work.  
> Hello! I hope you enjoy this little beginning. Please feel free to correct me or leave any kind of feedback, politely.  
> There may be some mistakes? I wrote this rather quickly.  
> Disclaimer; I own nothing of the BBC Sherlock series, or the rights of anything Sherlock affiliated.

The facts are as follows:

 

One: Sherlock has been unusually chipper as of recent. Lasting comparatively longer than his usual bouts of mania.

 

Two: Bruises sometimes reveal themselves, just for a breath's time, before being hidden again as Sherlock straightens his collar or adjusts his scarf once more. John swears he sees Sherlock wincing one day after each step he takes.

 

And, three, he has been leaving at random intervals during a month's time, disappearing for hours, telling John not to wait up. Not to worry. Which of course, is worrying in itself.

 

(John's mind wanders, exploring the points of data in a way not unlike Sherlock. Boosted mood. Aches. Atypical bruise patterns. Random disappearances. Lapse in 'interesting' cases. Attached to someone whom was formerly addicted to cocaine, a conclusion can be drawn: _Drug use._ Christ.)

 

On the Thursday marking five weeks of this pattern, John's patience finally wears. He plans to confront the issue with Sherlock after the lanky git returns from whatever escapades he was currently embarking on. Or, rather, whatever troubles he was currently causing.

 

At 'round 00:30, Sherlock's distinct footsteps clod up to their flat door, and his hum resonates in the otherwise quiet night. He greets John with a smirk as he hangs his scarf up. John notices his ruffled hair and flushed face. The doctor dreads that his mate is high as a kite.

 

“Sherlock, wait.” John clears his throat, looking pointedly at the detective, whom he had stopped on his fast journey to the recedes of his bedroom. Sherlock leers at his flatmate, tilting his head in askance. John musters the hardest look he can manage. “Listen, are you--?”

 

“Oh, _please_ , do try harder to not be hilariously daft.” He attempts to pivot back around and resume his path. Instead, John stands from his chair and towards Sherlock.

 

“Forgive me, Sherlock, for being bloody concerned about your well-being.”

 

“Your _concern_ is unnecessary. I'm not robbing _banks_ , or murdering people.” There's a smile teasing Sherlock's face the entire time he says the words, drawing some sting away from the sarcasm. “However, I notice that you're on edge from several stood-up dates, so why don't you worry about Michelle and her gambling habits instead of _me_?”

 

“You _cock._ ” John's breath quickens in anger and his fists clench. Pinching the bridge of his nose, he huffs. _“_ Fine. Have it your way. But at least answer me this, Sherlock. You're not involved in drugs again, correct?”

 

“Correct.”

 

“...A case, then?”

 

“I believe you've used your one question. Drop the subject.”

 

John pauses. He fixes Sherlock a look. “Are you seeing Irene?”

 

For a moment, Sherlock's poise falters, and it _could_ be the mere mention of The Woman, but John feels more like they're playing a game of 'Hot and Cold' and he's dangerously close to the source of the flames. Sherlock quickly regains composure and saunters to his bedroom, acting poignant in stature.

 

John mutters under his breath, “What're you hiding, you arse?”

 

It falls unto deaf ears, though, and for the rest of the evening 221B is nearly silent. (Except, of course, for Sherlock's energetic sounding staccato violin playing.)


	2. Kindling

The next day, there's tension in the air as they drink their own respective beverages over breakfast. Sherlock's fingers flutter around the table, keeping themselves occupied.

 

John tries to study Sherlock's behaviour. His curls had been tamed, most likely by a shower, and his pigment had returned to a pasty white. He's sitting at the edge of his seat, favouring his left side. There's a sliver of a maroon bruise peeking over his cotton pyjama tee, and John nearly gapes. _A love bite?_

 

A possessive, jealous feeling surges through him, for reasons unknown. (Or reasons that John refuses to acknowledge.)

 

He's about to comment, when Sherlock speaks first. “What would you say if I asked you to  _choke_ me, John?” There's a purr to his tone that John has rarely heard.

 

Ironically, John spits a bit of his tea on himself when he hears Sherlock's question. “I'm sorry?” He dabs a napkin at his jumper.

 

Sherlock's eyes dance over John's face, calculating, and John nearly cusses at how that affects him. He shifts in his seat. “You're so curious as to what I'm up to. I'll tell you, but perhaps it's not something you'd really want to hear.”

 

The pace of John's heart quickens, and wait, why is it doing that? What is Sherlock implying? He re-analyses the data. (Boosted mood;  _increased endorphins?_ Aches; lower body. Atypical bruise patterns; neck and wrist regions. Random disappearances; usually at night. Connection to Irene Adler. Choking. Sherlock.  _Sex?_ ) John swallows a lump in his throat.

 

“Or maybe you really, really would.” Sherlock's lips quirk, before his hands steeple in front of his mouth as his elbows rest on the table. He locks eyes with John. “I've been seeking sexual partners to choke and use me, John. My libido has become simply _insatiable._ ”

 

The doctor resists urges; first to whimper, then to laugh.

 

This confession on Sherlock's part seems to pause all life around them, and John finds his mind wandering through the memories he's created with Sherlock. The memories of Sherlock. Then to his imagination: the imagery of Sherlock kneeling before him, the feel of pulse beneath John's fingertips as he presses them into Sherlock's neck. How does Sherlock look immediately following a thorough shag? John shivers.

 

Of course the impossible detective, his best friend, would share a danger kink. Of course he'd be the iceberg of John's heterosexual Titanic.

 

“Right, then. Okay,” John clears his throat, setting his fork on his plate and pursing his lips. “Good to know. Glad it's not cocaine.”

 

John's comment lightens the mood to a certain degree. He can feel their shared breath as they laugh together. Something that now feels intimate, yet has always been commonplace. _Inhale. Exhale._ How would it feel to have control over that primal mannerism?

 

Dishes are picked up, set in the sink, and rinsed. Sherlock's hand reaches from the tap to John's face, and he leans in.

 

Their kiss is like a waltz between two long associated partners; it comes easy to them. John cups Sherlock's cheek and his other palm rests against his hip. Sherlock's bottom lip is bitten, and he lets out an airy breath, giving John the perfect access. And then it's like a camp fire on dry wood; quick to blaze and very  _ hot _ .

 

A sudden, vibrating jolt separates the two. Sherlock chuckles, breath ghosting over John's lips, pecking him again before fishing for his cell phone. It comes as a shock to John that Sherlock didn't ask _him_ to retrieve the object, for once. “Lestrade!” Sherlock nearly cheers, and as if a flip was switched, he's thumbing a reply and dashing around the flat. His dressing robe falls from his shoulders as he peeks his head in the doorway. “A case, John, are you coming?”

 

John hasn't even managed to catch his breath yet. He mutters an affirmative, and shakes his head. Things really wouldn't change, then, if this is what they're going to continue on with. Kissing, crime, and tea. Better than Afghanistan. Better than benzoylmethylecgonine.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How's this fic going so far? Is the build up too slow? Gahhh, I'm sorry.  
> Please comment any feedback/criticism/corrections! <3


	3. Ignition

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the long wait for the third chapter...I started having horrible internal criticism and then doubted the worth of everything I've ever written. I'm getting over it now, though! Thanks for reading.
> 
> Anyway, this is the first nsfw chapter I've ever published. Hopefully it's not too bad?

At the scene, Sherlock is bent over a body, completely engrossed in the evidence, the suspects, the weapon, etc. John's mind wanders unintentionally, and a ridiculous amount of times, always drawing back to what he and Sherlock are now. What are they, exactly?

John distantly wonders—yet is almost completely understanding of—how Sherlock can be so focused on their task at hand, knowing that they're...something. They're something. And John Watson previously considered himself a straight man. And he was seeing a girl named Michelle. (Though she did never respond to his call yesterday.) He taps his foot to an offbeat rhythm and coughs, as if his thoughts are fluid resting at the bottom of his lungs, and hacking desperately will clear them. 

Sherlock is making rude comments to some copper John hasn't been introduced to yet, and the bloke looks horrendously offended. He shouts something at Sherlock, who promptly swivels around, Belstaff billowing out behind him. Then he's two blocks away before John can even process it.

(That's Sherlock, always a few steps ahead.)

“Don't wait for me or anything!” John shouts after the detective, chasing him as he paces towards the street. When he's turning a corner to follow Sherlock, his back hits the brick side of a building. No damage done, but an instinct to fight kicks in. John raises his fists.

It's only Sherlock. “Don't think I've forgotten about you.” The man breathes the words into John's neck, before kissing it roughly as his hands pin John to the wall. John's breath hitches and his eyes close. Gods, that mouth.

His tongue and teeth trail up and down John's neck, roughly turning the doctor's head when he needed better access to a certain side, before his mouth takes John's hand and licks and sucks and nibbles on his fingers. How can that be as attractive as it is? “Sherlock.” He moans, gasping, and Sherlock growls in response.

John pulls Sherlock by the hair to somehow draw him closer, and Sherlock keens into the touch, lips parting and eyes closing tightly in a silent display of pleasure. They exchange warm smiles before wordlessly agreeing that they need to get to 221b and fast.

Heat simmers in John's belly on the cab ride home. His hands twitch in anticipation, and he hungrily eyes Sherlock. Boyfriend? Partner? Lover? Companion? John contemplates what Sherlock would want to be referred to as, what Sherlock wouldn't view as a petname below his status of person.

When the vehicle pulls to the kerb and stops, the cabby turns around to say something, but notes are being shoved in his face and the two men are exiting before he can get the words out. Sherlock tugs John by the wrist and through their doorway, stumbling up the stairs and to their flat.

This time it's Sherlock against the wall, coat in a pool at his ankles and shirt already unbuttoned halfway. John presses kisses from his mouth to his sternum, mumbling about how gorgeous he is, how pretty he's going to be with John's hands around his neck. When John roughly gropes Sherlock's ass, palming it through his trousers, Sherlock makes a noise that is absolutely sinful.

“Hit me. Please hit me, John.” Sherlock pants, pressing his body up to John's. How can John say no when Sherlock asks so prettily?

“O'course, love. Where?” John mumbles, pressing another kiss to Sherlock's jaw. Sherlock's larger hand covers John's on his arse, and John nods knowingly. “Bedroom, yours.”

When they reach their destination, John orders (in a very military tone that Sherlock loves) his partner to undress to only his pants, and then lay face down on his bed. Sherlock complies without complaint. He writhes a bit into the mattress, though, still as impatient as ever.

John's down to his pants as well, erection bulging in the cloth, and he indulges himself in a few strokes through the fabric. He takes a steadying breath before running his fingertips down Sherlock's thin, pale back. The notches in his spine are traced, gently, and then suddenly he brings his left hand hard against Sherlock's rear. 

The fire stings momentarily, then dulls to a throb, and Sherlock is biting the sheets below him. John smacks again, slightly lower, before he stops touching Sherlock all together. He almost protests, but another hit quickly lands and it's deliciously indelicate. John rubs Sherlock's arse cheeks to soothe the skin, before Sherlock is turning over and crushing John on top of him. “Need you, now, please.”

They manage to strip their remaining clothing, and marvel at each other's bodies. John's fingers tease Sherlock's nipples, before they wrap around both of their cocks. Sherlock digs a convenient bottle of lube from somewhere in the duvet, and the cool liquid sends sparks up their spines. “Christ.” John moans, smirking.

He kisses Sherlock's neck, and it's messy, because they're jerking and it causes John's lips to slip. But it's okay, everything's alright. Sherlock whines, and his dick pulses against John's. Next, John's hand pushes into Sherlock's carotid artery and neck, and he's whispering, “It's okay, I've got you now, it's alright,” into Sherlock's ear.

Sherlock sees stars and flames behind his eyelids, and a choked sob manages to push past his throat as he comes. John follows his lead, for the third time that day (in a very different way.) He releases his grip on Sherlock's neck, thumb massaging circles against the flesh as they lay panting. 

“That was—that was. Better. With you.” Sherlock says, holding onto John's back and sighing in post-coital bliss.  
“Sherlock Holmes, are you sentimental?” John mocks, looking into Sherlock's eyes and grinning again. Other than the uncomfortable itch of their drying come, this moment is rather precious. John's glad that they're both appreciating it.

They kiss, languidly, over and over until they both fall asleep, wrapped in Sherlock's comforter and each other's arms.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, feedback is welcomed and appreciated. Until the next chapter, my lovelies! Cheers.


End file.
